


All I Want For Christmas Is An Alibi

by marcicat



Category: Burn Notice, Leverage, Psych, Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcicat/pseuds/marcicat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If I knew what was happening, it would be a Christmas miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For Christmas Is An Alibi

**Miami, Florida**

"Sam, what are you doing?"

He'd been ignoring Sam for the better part of an hour, while the other man rummaged around in what (if you were being generous) could be called the kitchen area of the loft. Asking questions was likely to get him volunteered to do something. But he wanted a yogurt, and they were in the refrigerator, and that meant going through Sam.

Sam looked guilty. "I'm making an appetizer."

Michael looked around, like that sentence might make more sense in context. It didn't, and Fi was suspiciously giving off not paying attention vibes from her spot in his favorite chair. "Why?" he asked finally.

Sam ignored the question. "I was thinking crab cakes, but they're a little beyond your kitchen resources here. Have you considered remodeling? I know a guy who could help you with that."

Michael just looked at him. Sam sighed. "I promised Madeline I'd bring an appetizer to her Christmas party. I figured I'd better start early so I wouldn't mess it up."

It was an effort not to laugh. "Right. Good luck with that."

"Oh, I've got it easy," Sam said. "Fiona promised she'd bring you."

 

**Manhattan, New York**

"You know I can never, ever wear this, right?" Neal held the shirt gingerly, like it was a bomb that might explode at any minute. It was a toss-up, really, whether he was more appalled by the t-shirt's lack of style or the fact that it said "FBI: Junior Squad" on it.

Peter tried and failed to hold in a smile. "Come on, Neal -- all the first-years get the Junior Squad shirt. It's tradition. Lauren's wearing hers."

Neal's expression was priceless. "This isn't Hogwarts, Peter. Also, it's winter."

"Well, don't throw it away just yet," Peter said. "Maybe it'll come in handy." He passed Neal an envelope. "Here, you'll like this present better. It's from me and Elizabeth."

That got him a flash of genuine curiosity. "I don't know," Neal said, turning the envelope over in his hands, like he could divine the contents by touch. "Are you allowed to give me presents?"

"You signed me up for a Sock of the Month Club," Peter said, with a huff that could have been irritation, or possibly admiration. "You sent me birthday cards from jail, and now you want to talk about what's appropriate?"

Neal shrugged and busied himself with opening the envelope. "It's a plane ticket. "You're... sending me to Florida?"

"You wish," Peter said, plucking the ticket back out of his hand. "We're inviting you to Florida. To keep you out of trouble."

 

**Santa Barbara, California**

"Tell me again why we're doing this."

Shawn didn't even look up from his book. "Christmas is about family, Lassiter. Flying across the country because of relatives is practically a requirement."

"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to fly towards your relatives, not thousands of miles in the opposite direction."

Shawn shrugged. "I've heard it both ways. Besides, the Chief said you were banned from the station until after Christmas, Scrooge McLassiepants."

Carlton sighed and looked out the window. They hadn't even left the runway, and he was already drafting an "I'm sorry I had to kill Spencer; he was driving me insane" letter in his head. It was a surprisingly effective technique for dealing with him.

"Where are we going, anyway?" He'd agreed to Shawn's invitation on an impulse after one too many jewelry commercials made him willing to be anywhere but in the same city as his ex-wife come Christmas day, and all Shawn had said was "pack your flip-flops and your badge." The tickets said Arizona, but he was betting it was just to switch planes. "And what are you reading?"

"It's a novelization of the Christmas spirit," Shawn said, still looking at the book, though it was hard to tell if he was actually reading. "I stole it from Gus' desk."

Carlton had taken a look at it when Shawn got distracted by a man stowing his luggage over their seats. "It's a bodice-ripper," he objected. You couldn't call anything that had half-naked people on the cover a novelization.

Shawn just nodded. "Set at Christmas," he said. "There's snow and everything."

 

**Miami International Airport, Miami, Florida**

"I really hate that movie."

Alec glanced sideways in surprise, but Parker was glaring at the baggage carousel. "Because it makes light of real historical events and plays on cultural and ethnic differences for laughs?"

Parker glared harder. "No. I just think museums are creepy."

Parker's expression didn't invite further conversation (it rarely did) and Alec didn't push. Instead, he joined her in glaring at the baggage -- honestly, who checked luggage anymore? Especially at an international airport? Sophie, that's who. And who got stopped for extra security checks? Sophie.

Nate was hanging around the security checkpoint, probably waiting to see if she was going to need bribe money. He liked to be accurate when he lied to the IRS about business expenses. Eliot, the lucky bastard, had volunteered to get the car, leaving him and Parker stuck in the airport waiting for Sophie's bags.

"Hey guys," he heard from behind them. "Guess what?" Nate and Sophie strolled casually up to the baggage carousel, looking for all the world like casual travelers on vacation. (And not at all like semi-criminals who'd left Boston on a red-eye when it suddenly became a little too full of familiar faces for comfort.) He rolled his eyes, but held back any rude comments -- after all, they were the ones springing for this little trip. Miami in December wasn't exactly a hardship.

"I was talking to a couple of the guys in security," Nate said. "I think I found us a job. How do you feel about gunrunners?"

 

**Miami International Airport, Miami, Florida**

"Come on, Elizabeth. You can tell me. Is this a kidnapping?"

They were standing outside a restroom in the heart of the airport -- he'd watched Peter deliberately search out the one farthest from an entrance. There'd been a toilet on the plane, of course, but apparently Peter had a "thing" about small enclosed spaces. He'd spent a good five minutes figuring ways to work that to his advantage before he remembered he was supposed to be one of the good guys now.

Peter's original plan had been for Neal to accompany him to the restroom, a plan Neal had vehemently opposed. There were some things he just didn't need to know, and didn't want to be scarred for life by seeing. The inside of a Miami airport restroom was one of those things.

Plan B included Neal and Elizabeth standing near the restroom -- and holding hands. Which in itself was an intriguing commentary on what Peter trusted him to do and not do, or possibly was just an indication of Peter's absolute faith in Elizabeth's abilities.

"No, of course not," Elizabeth said, squeezing his hand a little. "It's a -- Peter knows the exact wording -- 'temporarily removing you from your chosen place of residence to prevent recidivism.' Or something like that."

Neal gave her a look. "'Something like that?'"

Elizabeth just rolled her eyes. "June hosts a Christmas party every year, a house party? In the last eight years, they've never made it to New Year's without the police being called, sometimes more than once. Miami seemed like a safer choice."

"Byron had a lot of connections," Neal murmured.

"Excuse me, are you Neal Caffrey?" A woman standing just a hair too close smiled at him.

"That depends who's asking," he said, flashing his most charming grin.

Sixty seconds later, she was leading them out of the airport with a gun pointed at his kidney. Elizabeth leaned towards him and whispered, "This, I'm pretty sure is a kidnapping."

 

**Miami International Airport, Miami, Florida**

"Honestly, Lassie, who checks luggage?" Shawn bounced a little on the balls of his feet. "We're in Miami, and we're stuck in the airport because you can't pack light."

"What's the rush, Spencer? You still haven't told me what we're doing here."

There was more distracted bouncing from Shawn. More staring at the ceiling, too. At first Carlton thought it was a setup for some kind of "made you look" joke -- by now he was fairly convinced it was actually an attempt (probably futile) just to not notice things. "Hats?" he asked idly, still watching for his bag.

Shawn choked on a laugh. "Sixty-three," he said. "God, I'm stuck like this forever, aren't I?"

"It seems likely," Carlton said idly. "So, who's in Miami?"

"Well, it's the only place my air miles would get us to. Actually, that's not true; they could have gotten us to Wetaskiwin, but the county clerk banned pineapples in public gathering places, and it's just not Christmas without pineapple."

He narrowed his eyes and studied Shawn. "You're lying."

"Maybe." Shawn grinned. "But you're not sure, are you? Besides, there is someone I know in Miami. We can drop in, say hello, then hit the beach for a little R & B."

Carlton grabbed his bag off the conveyor belt with one hand. "R & R," he corrected. He waited, but the expected response never came. Shawn was staring towards the escalator.

"Well, that's not something you see every day."

 

**Miami International Airport, Miami, Florida**

"Heads up. Fed at twelve o'clock."

He looked like a Fed, FBI probably, but he didn't flash a badge before he started showing a picture around. "Have you seen this woman?" It was a candid shot, blond, on a beach somewhere.

It got to him sometimes, how easy the lying was. Not that saying no was really a lie -- he'd never seen the woman before in his life -- but knowing he would have said no either way still gave him that little twinge of guilt.

"How about this man?" The Fed held up another photo, that looked like it had been pulled from security footage. Nate put on his best "aw shucks" expression, shook his head, and managed to wait until they were all in the SUV before rubbing his hands together in glee.

"That was Neal Caffrey," he said.

"Really?" Parker looked impressed. Eliot and Hardison just looked confused.

"Do you know what this means?" Sophie asked.

"Who's Neal Caffrey?" Eliot wanted to know.

"One of the best art thieves of this century," Sophie said. "I've always wanted to meet him in person. If he's in Miami..."

Nate nodded. "Forget gunrunners. We're going to go catch us an art thief."

 

**Miami, Florida**

"I finally agreed to go to this thing, and now Fi's gone missing? Where is she?"

He felt ridiculous. There were plenty of things he wanted to do less on Christmas Eve than go to a party at his mother's house, but most of them involved international terrorists and bodily injury. None of them included his former plan for the day, which was to sit around the loft and relax.

"How would I know? It's not like she left me an itinerary," Sam said. "My cheese plate is getting warm."

"Are you sure I have to wear a tie?"

There was a knock at the door. Michael and Sam exchanged glances. "Expecting company?" Sam asked dryly.

It was Fi. Fi, holding a gun, and accompanied by two hostages. "Fi..."

"Michael, don't say anything. I wasn't even looking, just stumbled across them at the airport like a Christmas present." She gestured for the two hostages -- hostages! -- to sit down. Of course, the only place in the loft for two people to sit down together was on the bed. Fi just looked smug, and stole a piece of cheese off Sam's tray.

"What about the party?" Sam asked.

"It's easy," Fi said. "We'll leave these two tied up, go to the party, by the time we get back it'll be tomorrow in Spain, and we trade Caffrey for the absolutely huge bounty the Spanish government has on him. You should never steal religious artifacts. Watch them, will you? I have to go change."

She wandered off towards the bathroom. The woman on the bed bit her lip. "Look," she said. "I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding."

"Elizabeth, it's fine," the man said.

And then they both looked at his ankle, which -- oh, this was not giving him a good feeling.

 

**Still Miami**

"Are you sure we should just drop in like this?" Carlton looked around. What he wanted to ask was, "Who lives in a place like this?" but that seemed rude, and it wasn't like Shawn was in the habit of introducing him to people from his past.

"Sure," Shawn said easily, like it was perfectly normal to drive up to a run-down warehouse on Christmas Eve to visit someone you hadn't seen in years. He sounded convincing -- if Carlton hadn't heard him lie (extravagantly, and with exactly the same tone, literally hundreds of times) he'd probably feel relieved. "See, he's already having company."

The people who got out of the SUV didn't exactly look like party guests to him. He thought they looked like criminals, but he usually thought people looked like criminals, so that wasn't always the best test. They smiled nicely enough, though, as all seven of them made their way up the steps to the door.

Shawn knocked. "Michael!" he called loudly. "It's Shawn Spencer! And guests!" He tossed a grin back towards the rest of them. "It's always good to announce yourself," he said confidently.

Carlton could swear he heard one of the women whisper behind him, "I don't know why we can't just break in. 'Because it's Christmas' is hardly a reason."

They were ushered inside by a man Shawn called "Hatchet," and who exasperatedly corrected him by saying his last name was "Ax," to which Shawn replied that he always considered the hacking tools to be interchangeable. There was an added moment of confusion when one of the people from the SUV recognized "Michael," and both women were staring openly at a man sitting on the bed, and then the door burst open and yet another man rushed in, holding a gun and shouting, "Freeze! FBI!"

**Travel's tough on Christmas Eve (in other words, still Miami)**

First rule of working as a spy: never, ever, tell yourself it can never get worse. Because it can -- and it will, and you'll feel like an idiot as you survey the chaos.

But Shawn Spencer was just as glib as he'd been years ago, at a party in D.C. where -- amazingly -- no shots had been fired. "Whoa!" Shawn said. "If I was psychic, and some say I am, I'd have to say I'm feeling some serious vibes here."

Michael watched Shawn's cop friend roll his eyes. "Spencer."

"Fine. It's more fun my way, though." Spencer sighed, then started pointing around the room. "FBI agent, FBI agent's wife -- nice rings, by the way. FBI agent's... partner. Also a convicted criminal, but no one holds that against him." He pointed at Fiona. "She saw them in the airport, and grabbed those two, probably for a bounty. FBI agent starts looking, sparks the attention of these guys. They used to work out of LA, Lassiter, I'm surprised you don't recognize them."

Just about everyone was looking surprised at that point, so Spencer's feeling was mutual. "They come looking, we drop by to visit, and the gang's all here. Refreshments, even. A fruit plate would have been a nice touch, but I can see cheese. Is fruit too common for Miami? I get that."

Fiona pointed at the FBI agent. "What about him?"

Spencer looked up from the cheese tray. "Him? Oh, he just tracked the ankle bracelet."

Everyone looked at the bed. The man gave a sheepish smile and lifted his pant leg far enough to show the blinking device. There was a moment where no one said anything. Finally, Sam said, "Hey, look at it this way. We can still make the party."

 

**... Yup, still in Miami**

They didn't go to the party. Instead, they invited Madeline to the loft; it was just easier that way. For a group of people where half the participants were trying not to give their real names, and the other half were trying not to reach for their badges (and everyone was pretending not to hear the stories of possibly-to-probably-to-definitely illegal activities), it went pretty well. Poker, apparently, was a universal game.

He was finally starting to relax -- enough to eat a yogurt, anyway, when there was another knock at the door. Sam ushered three new people into the loft, but no one looked prepared to claim them. Three men, one very tall, one who looked bored, and one wearing a trench coat and tie. "Hi," the tall one said, waving awkwardly.

"Hi," he said.

"I'm Sam," the tall one said. "This is Dean, and Castiel."

The trench coat guy -- Castiel -- was staring at the Fed's wife, Elizabeth. "Are you all right?" he asked solemnly.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm fine." She frowned. "Who are you?"

"I'm Castiel," he said. "You prayed for me."

Dean sighed loudly, and Sam looked even more uncomfortable. "It's Thursday," Dean said, as if that explained anything.

"Does that really work?" Elizabeth asked. "I mean -- thanks. Everything turned out okay, though. I'm sorry you had to come all this way."

"It was no trouble," Sam said, while Dean rolled his eyes.

"Is that food?" Dean asked pointedly.

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, and Michael saw Burke and Lassiter trying to sneak a peek at Spencer's cards. It wouldn't help them win, but it was good for a smile. He shrugged. "Come on in, join the party."

After all, it was Christmas.


End file.
